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It seems as though this blog is becoming nothing more than a handful of updates proclaiming that the author (me) is still around and kicking. But it’s true. I’m still here, Dear Reader.

The thing is, life has been so chaotic since August, I haven’t really had much to say. The house build has been the least stressful thing to happen to me and my family these past few months, and that’s saying something. I would go into more detail here, but much of what’s happened isn’t my story to tell. Luckily, I am fortunate to have a wonderful support network both on and offline. I’m checking in with my therapist twice a month and trying to do all the little self care things I love to keep stress and anxiety levels down as much as possible. Still, it’s been rough.

It’s November 28, which means National Novel Writing Month is about to end. I managed to “win” with four days to spare, and I might write more before the month closes on Friday. However, this particular novel has proven difficult to write. It’s the sequel to The Golden Orb, and as I started writing it, I realized I hadn’t done as much world building for the first novel than I had originally thought. I’m essentially writing two books in one with this sequel. The past few weeks were a slog to get in the average daily word count (on top of being sick with a sinus infection), so I was really happy on Monday when everything suddenly clicked, and I saw how the story should get to the end. The last 300 words I wrote are notes to myself on how to move forward. Once I feel up to it, I’ll go back and finish the novel properly.

On top of NaNoWriMo, I’ve been writing more short stories and submitting them to various science fiction/fantasy markets. The rejections have been piling up, but that’s okay. It means people are seeing my work, and at least a few of them have had very nice things to say. One even told me they would like to see more of my writing when they’re editing again in the future. That’s a rejection I’ll take any day of the week. If my words can touch someone in such a way that they’d like to read more, then I feel I’ve done my job as a writer, even if whatever I wrote will never be read by anyone else.

Apart from writing, I’ve been doing the daily mom thing and making sure my boys are getting to school and various activities. We enjoyed watching our older son play Bombur in a local kids’ theater production of “The Hobbit”. I believe he’s caught the acting bug, which is fine with us. He’s found something he likes to do and that he’s good at at twelve years old, which means maybe his teenage years won’t be so turbulent as some kids’ seem to be. We’ll see.

So, that’s all I have for now. I’m writing. I’m mom-ing and wife-ing. Occasionally, I get out and enjoy myself, but it’s been tough lately. I do want to say, Dear Reader, that if someone in your life is dealing with a chronic illness — whether it’s physical or mental — just know there is support out there for them and you. And if you or a loved one needs it, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can help at 1-800-273-8255. Seek help. Find hope.

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Some of the land surrounding one of my favorite walking/jogging trails in my city.

It’s past mid-September, and I’m just now getting around to writing a new blog post. Which means this will be an update on life more than anything else.

What’s been happening to me and my family since I last blogged? Well, let’s see.

We’re still building that new house. Our original completion date was supposed to be some time at the end of September, but with cabinets, built-ins, and counter tops yet to be installed along with trim, doors, tile, grout, and lighting, that’s not gonna happen. We’re down to a lot of the smaller details, though, and are hoping we’ll be moved in by Thanksgiving.

The front of the new house. It’s getting there, but still needs more work. Contractors were putting stone around the arched window above the porch just today!

This summer has been the Season of Conventions (TM). First was Mo*Con back in May, a small, very low-key convention organized and run by the Indianapolis writer (and all-around fabulous man) Maurice Broaddus. One of the members of my writing group suggested we attend this year, and I’m so glad we did. Not only did I learn a lot about the business of writing, I met some other fantastic writers, editors, and publishers . . . and ate some amazing food. (Pics of Fountain Square, where much of Mo*Con took place, below. And, yes, my friend and I went to a cat cafe on one of our breaks!)

Next, I took off five days BY MYSELF in June to attend a wonderful convention in Minneapolis called Fourth Street Fantasy. I knew it was going to be my kind of con when one of the people who rode with me to the hotel from the airport was also attending and immediately put me at ease. In fact, I went a day early for the all-day writing seminar before the con officially started and was instantly embraced by the veteran attendees who were already there, too. The convention itself consists of single-track programming; all the panels happened in the same room over the course of two and a half days. They ranged in topic, from how to write narratives without (or with) violence to how humans communicate across vast distances (space, time, etc) and how that can look in story-form. Not everyone at the con was a writer, but everyone was super inclusive. Again, I met some fabulous people, many of whom I consider friends today. And my “writers circle” expanded even more. (Pics of all the cool scenery around the hotel in Minneapolis below.)

My little family took our summer vacation in Florida at the end of July and a week later, we attended Gen Con. It was another great time at our favorite gaming convention, but I felt like the days sped by way too fast. Part of that was because I had an obligation at home on the Sunday of the con, so I had to leave early. Another reason: Gen Con was very spread out this year and my friends spread out with it. We all had different events to attend or were staying in different hotels. I felt like I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to see or spend as much time with them as I wanted to. Still, we attended some excellent events and parties. I was given the honor of being Maurice’s (again, such a fabulous man) plus one at the Gen Con Writer’s Symposium party and, again, met some fantastic writers and editors there, further expanding my circle. And I managed to pull off one cosplay this year: an amalgam of Qi’ra’s costumes from “Solo: A Star Wars Story”.

School started for the kids right after Gen Con, and my older son was cast in a community kids’ theater production of The Hobbit. He’s playing the dwarf Bombur and is super excited to be “the fat, funny dwarf” in the play. At the end of August, I attended one more convention with my bestie: Wizard World Chicago. This convention had invited a few of the actors from the Outlander TV series as well as the author of the books on which the series is based. The celebrity panels and photo ops were fun, but I enjoyed meeting Diana Gabaldon and listening to her panels the most. It was amazing to see an author being treated like a rock star, especially at a pop culture convention catering mostly to screen media and comics fans.

During all this fun, I still managed to get some writing done. I’ve started working on more short form pieces and have been submitting them to various pro markets (on-line and print magazines). I have two speculative fiction stories out to different markets right now, waiting on responses from the editors. So far, I’ve garnered a couple of rejections, and I’m sure there will be more to come. Perhaps all I’ll receive are rejections, but that’s okay. Throughout this process, I continue to hone my craft and become a better writer. I do plan on participating in NaNoWriMo in November, but I haven’t decided whether I’ll finish transcribing a story I’ve already written in long hand or write something entirely new. I think, after a busy summer and start to the school year on top of other, more personal and stressful life events, it’s time to work on something fresh and original. Well, maybe not entirely original, since the NaNo story might be set somewhere in the Fae Realms. (Hint, hint.)

Oh, and my Bronze Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) for Best Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror E-book arrived in June. I’m still super proud of that one! And the medal is a nice, hefty little award to receive.

That’s it, for now. I hope the next post will be less update and more fascinating content. We’ll see if my brain will let that happen after life decides to get out of the way.

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They will be twelve and eight years old in the fall. They are funny and thoughtful and kind and generous when they want to be. They can also be frustratingly difficult to talk to when they want to be. They can be angry. They can be sensitive. They can be hurtful. They can be joyful and goofy and so fun to be with. Their emotions run the gamut as all human emotions do. And they are growing up in an era when being a young, white male can be a threat to other humans’ lives.

Every time the news breaks about another school shooting, my heart goes out to the victims first. Always to the victims. Then, the identity of the shooter is announced, and my heart breaks a little more. Inevitably, he looks like my sons.

Young.

White.

Male.

And angry.

What happened to that young man that made him so angry, I wonder? So angry that he decided the only way to express his rage was to find a gun and hurt the people who somehow wronged him.

The motive can usually be distilled down to “They hurt me.” Or “They said ‘no’ to me.” Which then led to, “I will hurt them back, so they can never say ‘no’ to me again.”

Where does this sense of entitlement come from, which is so ingrained in these young men that all respect for human life goes out the window?

I read an interesting article recently, “The Anger of the White Male Lie”, that really struck me. In it, Ijeoma Oluo suggests that “. . . white male anger is steeped in a lie. It is fighting for what they were never going to have. For the promises that were never going to be fulfilled. White men are the only people allowed to fully believe in the American dream and perhaps that is the cruelest thing to have ever been done to them and the world that has to suffer their anger as they refuse to let go of a fantasy that [women and people of color] were never allowed to imagine ourselves in.” I suggest you read the rest for yourselves, because she points to something that seems to be very true.

White men, from when they are very young, are almost always told they can be anything they want to be if they just put their minds to it.

And when they don’t get what they want or what they think was owed them, they sometimes (not always, but more often now than ever before) get angry, directing their anger at those who they perceive stole from them what was probably never theirs to begin with. The “right” job. The “right” house. Sex. A life they see as better than the one they currently have.

Friday morning, my oldest son was playing a new (to him) online game. He has friends who play it, and after discussing the game with my husband, we decided to allow him to play it under the condition he would not open or use the chat function. I looked over his shoulder a couple of times to make sure he was playing as respectfully as he could in such a game. (We’ve had discussions before about trolling in Minecraft. Our main rules for these types of games: you don’t destroy something someone else has built, and you follow the rules when you play a player-vs-player part of the game. Basically, be respectful of the other players. Oh, and don’t chat with people you don’t know.)

I told him when he started playing this new game that if he opened the chat function, he would have to stop playing. He tested his limits and, behind my back, opened the chat. I caught him when I came in to check on his progress and he tried to quickly close the chat window. He’s no longer allowed to play that game.

After I gave him a few minutes to be disappointed, I decided it was time to have THE TALK. Not the sex talk. We’ve had that one before and are always reminding him and his younger brother about asking for consent before giving and receiving hugs, keeping their hands and bodies to themselves, and NO MEANS NO. Basically, treat others with respect.

Friday’s THE TALK was about this new world in which we’re suddenly living, one in which young white men are becoming school shooters almost weekly. I told my son the reasons why I don’t want him using the chat function in the games he wants to play: the people who use chat generally don’t use it in a respectful manner.

“But they can’t cuss on here! The game won’t let them,” he said, pointing to the open chat window where a string of asterisks punctuated every single line.

“No, they can’t,” I said, “but that doesn’t stop them from saying whatever they want. Yes, the asterisks are hiding the bad words, but it doesn’t matter. They’re still using those words. And they’re most likely disrespecting women and people of color while they’re doing it.” I decided it was time to move on to the main point of the discussion. “Did you know that there are young men who are now getting so angry that they think the only way they can express themselves is by being violent and hurting others?”

“I know, honey, and I’m sorry, but it’s a scary world. Young men are getting angry because they aren’t getting what they want, and they’re using guns against other people because they’re angry. Many of them use these chats and other places on the Internet to say whatever they want to whoever they want, because they can do it anonymously. No one knows who they are. It makes them think they can say and do whatever they want in the real world too. And they are hurting other kids in schools with guns.”

He hugged me tight and started crying. “I’ll never see the world the same way, again,” he later told me. My heart broke into a million pieces.

Besides being so upset myself, two other things came to my mind while having THE TALK:

One: How privileged are my boys that they are (or were) this sheltered from the outside world? They had no clue before Friday that children are being shot and killed in schools around the country. They attend a tiny, private Montessori school with a diverse student population and a curriculum that emphasizes peaceful conflict resolution. They live in a home in which real guns are nonexistent and frowned upon, and first person shooter games are not really a thing, at least not something they themselves are allowed to play. They also live in a home in which the satellite and cable television have been completely dropped, so they have no real access to the 24/7 news cycle. (We stream all our entertainment through our game consoles and laptops now; my husband and I get our news through our social media outlets.) My sons live in a safe neighborhood in a relatively safe city. They’re not allowed to have social media accounts or even their own phones until they’re teenagers. Basically, my husband and I have created a bubble to protect our sons from the real dangers of the world, something that many parents of black and brown children have no ability or opportunity to do for their own families.

Two: My boys’ privileged, sheltered life won’t matter in the face of violent rage. An angry white shooter won’t discriminate, even if he has a target in mind.

Since we had THE TALK, I’ve wondered if it will make a difference at all? Was it heard and fully processed by someone with the ability to understand and empathize, but who has already moved on to the next distraction, because he’s still eleven? Will he remember what we talked about when it comes time to try the newest game or start using social media in a few years? After his final year of elementary school, which starts in the fall, do I register him for public middle school? Or do I home school him? Do I keep him and his brother safe from the outside world . . . and quite possibly keep the outside world safe from them?

That last question is the hardest to contemplate, but today, it’s one I have to ask myself. My boys are kind and funny and thoughtful human beings. But they are just as capable of hurting others as everyone else. Will what I say and do and teach them now matter later on? When they are someday faced with a choice, as assuredly they will be, will they choose the path of peaceful resolution and love — sometimes the more difficult path — over the path of pain and violence? Will my words filter through the noise that may bombard them when they’re older as it bombards so many young people today?

I really hope so. I’m doing nothing but living on hope these days.

These are my boys, and I love them.

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook

P. S. Please be respectful in the comments if you do have something to say. I will not have or allow a debate on gun reform here, but thoughtful ideas on how we can help our young men find appropriate ways to express themselves are always welcome.

Back in late fall/early winter, I decided to enter WWWF in two different independent publishing/self-pub awards contests. I had done the same for The Golden Orb after it had been published in 2014, and though it never won anything, I did receive some encouraging comments from one of the judges.

The organizers of the first contest to which WWWF was entered sent me a nice email stating it had not won anything, but the judges’ comments would be sent to me soon. Imagine, then, my surprise when I received the email from Jim Barnes, the Managing Editor and Awards Director of IndependentPublisher.com, congratulating me on being an IPPY medalist!

When We Were Forgotten was a difficult book to write for so many reasons. I’m proud of myself for listening to my gut as well as my amazing editors and beta readers and finishing it when I did. Everyday, we’re bombarded with news about the world and the environment, making my little story ever more relevant to our lives. I hope it continues to touch readers as it seems to have touched the judges who deemed it worthy of this medal.

I am honored and humbled. Thank you to everyone who has read my work and supported me through this difficult and awesome adventure called writing. I truly appreciate each and every one of you.

Now, I’m off to enjoy my tiny bit of celebrity. Look for an announcement soon on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram about a new free promotion on Amazon of the WWWF e-book. Because giving my story away for free (for a week) is how I plan on continuing the celebration!

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An image of the sun over the ocean to remind me the sun and the ocean are always there, even when I can’t see, feel, or smell them. They’re a little like hope in that regard.

It’s February. Again.

This winter has been a particularly brutal one. With the frigid temperatures, the cloudy days, and the threat of illness almost daily (Hello, flu epidemic!), my body and mind are physically and mentally exhausted. I’ve been trying to combat the creeping depression with mall walking and walking the dog. Both get me out of the house, and in the case of the dog, I actually get outside. Yay for a little Vitamin D! But now that we’re in the throes of house building (as of this writing, we have basement walls and some plumbing installed), the stress of all the daily little decisions is creeping in along with the winter blahs.

I’m bringing this up, because I’ve decided to be more forthcoming about my mental illness. I’ve written in past posts about having a therapist and feeling less than myself in the wintertime. I’ve never been officially diagnosed with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but many of the symptoms seem to crop up during the winter months. Or maybe it’s just that I’m cold all the time and want to hunker down under a blanket fort and never want to leave. Same difference?

There have been years, however, when the “winter blues” bled into spring and summer, when life was more chaotic or drama-filled than usual. It was a year like that when I sought out the guidance of a therapist. I love her, although I haven’t seen her in a long time. Sometimes, I think I should get back in the routine of going to therapy, especially now that we’re building a house, one of those huge, life-changing events. Everyone keeps saying, “It’ll test your marriage” and “You have to make all these decisions really quick.” In our case, I may be making most of those decisions myself. Our builder has been patient with us so far, but we’ve only just begun. Weather has been a big factor. He couldn’t dig a hole when the ground was frozen. Now that walls are starting to form, the process is building steam. He’s asked us to look at a window company to get ideas, and my head is already spinning with the choices.

Which brings me to why I may be the one making most of the decisions. No, I won’t be making them without my husband’s input, but when it comes down to last minute choices and Hubby’s in the middle of a surgery or delivery, it will be me our builder turns to about paint colors and light fixtures and counter tops. (I’m sure I’ll always have final say on paint colors, because my husband’s slightly color blind, but that’s beside the point.) Our builder is really laid back and we have a good rapport with him, so I’m hoping the build continues to be as smooth as it has been from the day he dug out the driveway. (There have been obstacles, mainly dealing with the future neighbors. That’s a post on kindness for another day.)

I think what’s really causing my anxiety to kick in isn’t the build itself. It’s been exciting watching the basement take shape and thinking of all the possibilities that could go into a house. What’s really stressing me out is the amount of work it’s going to take to get our current house in shape to sell. We’ve been here for almost a decade, which means a decade’s worth of stuff in every closet and cabinet and shelf. I’ve got de-cluttering and cleaning and garage sale-ing looming over my head. I should start now to get ahead of it all and I. Just. Can’t.

My motivation’s kaput. My sleep has been awful, which means I’m exhausted when I wake up. Little things easily irritate me. I’ve been forgetful more than usual (which is hardly ever for me). Even my writing feels off. I’ve been working on a historical fiction novella since NaNoWriMo, and although I love the idea of the story, I can’t tell if it’s “reading” well, if that makes sense. It’s really frustrating and just adds to the general sense of anxious foreboding. I’ve been turning to sewing for a creative outlet and finding that, although sewing for myself has been like pulling teeth, sewing for others – and teaching others to sew – is helping my mood.

Because of family history, I sometimes think I should try anti-depressants or anti-anxiety meds. The reason I haven’t already is because I’m highly sensitive to drugs, even caffeine. I’ve been prescribed anti-depressants at various times in my life, and they made me feel worse rather than better. One left me immobilized on my couch only an hour or two after taking a single pill. I know that it can take a couple of weeks or more before anti-depressants start working, but I don’t have the luxury of that time. I can’t say, “Oh, I’ll just spend the next two weeks in bed waiting for the meds to kick in.” Who would get my kids back and forth to school? Who would get them up in the morning, make their breakfasts, make their dinner, give them baths, help them with homework, get them to bed on time, do their laundry? They’re both getting older and can help around the house more, but they’re still very reliant on me. Also, who would take care of them when they’re sick? Who would remember to pay the bills on time, to schedule all the appointments that need to be scheduled, to take the van to get it serviced, to buy groceries and new clothes when they’re needed? My husband helps when he can, but his schedule is erratic and his hours are long and tiring. Babies come when they come. They don’t care that I might be a little depressed in the wintertime. They don’t care that my family has a life outside the hospital.

Before this sounds too much like I’m whining, I have to say that it’s not lost on me how much single parents have to do and deal with on a daily basis. And they usually have a job on top of everything else. Kudos to them for making it work. Also, I’m very grateful my husband has a job that will never not be needed, that we have a great life because of his job, that we can make daily choices that many people today cannot make themselves and their families.

But, truthfully, I’m also a bit burnt out. It’s the curse of being the spouse of a doctor/nurse/lawyer/police officer/fire fighter/military personnel/any number of jobs with odd shifts and long hours, I suppose.

So, why this long, rambling post about my current mental state? Because of podcasts and websites like “The Hilarious World of Depression” (THWoD, for short) and “Sickboy Podcast”. John Moe of THWoD and the three young Canadians of Sickboy are trying to change the world by making it okay to talk about – and laugh about – mental and physical illness. I’ve been listening to Sickboy since it began a year or two ago and I’ve learned so much about other people’s experiences with illness as well as my own. I’ve only just started listening to THWoD, but already, I’m hearing people put into words how I sometimes feel myself. Jenny Lawson, AKA The Bloggess, in particular spoke to me. Our childhoods were very different, yet, in many ways, very similar. I can relate to what she goes through on daily basis to a lesser degree. I highly recommend listening to her on the podcast (and reading her blog), because she’s funny and poignant and, like many other people, making it easier for all of us to talk about mental illness.

I’m doing okay, by the way. Just tired and stressed and ready for a vacation from daily life. We’re planning a family trip over Spring Break in March, so maybe that will help lift the old mood a bit. And maybe I’ll start feeling better about that novella I’m working on. Only time – or the seasons – will tell.

If you relate to anything I’ve written here, please know that you’re not alone and there are resources and people who can help. MakeItOkay.org is one place to start. If your feeling hopeless and don’t know where to turn, The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is there for you with free confidential support. Remember: Depression lies. Take care of you.

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It’s a new year, and while I really should spend my first blog post of January outlining my goals for 2018, I just don’t have it in me. (Could be the nasty head cold/sinus infection.)

2017 was a tough year. There were a lot of ups and downs for everyone. When I look back on it, I’m sure I had more ups than downs, but it’s hard to see the positives when the world is full of negative.

Hmmm.

I published a new book of which I’m extremely proud. It’s slowly being read by people outside my inner circle. It’s getting good reviews, too. That’s one positive.

My husband and I bought ten acres of wooded land and began the process of building a new house. At this point, we only have a gravel driveway and a large space cleared of trees. Still, that’s another positive.

I spent my 40th birthday weekend surrounded by a group of people I love and who love me back. Even more positives.

I managed to sew up/throw together some fun costumes for Gen Con and Halloween and created a dress for an adults-only New Year’s Eve party that I would be happy to wear out in public again and again. (That’s the dress at the top of this post. I was so ecstatic, because it fit like a glove after hours spent fitting and tweaking and fine tuning the muslin. Practically killed myself trying to finish it before the party, but I got it done.) Positives the fifth.

I “won” NaNoWriMo in November. Barely. After taking a break from writing in December, I’m back at it and revising November’s novel. It’s a personal little story about my favorite characters from classic American literature, the March family of Little Women. I do have one goal: once I finish the revisions, I want to send the manuscript out to a publisher or three or possibly even an agent. This is the year I want to find out if I can go the traditionally published route. I have another story – a piece of “chick lit” – that I’ll try to send out as well. It’s even more personal than the NaNo story.

My boys continued to grow and develop and are turning into fine little men. I can’t believe my oldest turned eleven in August! He’s almost as tall as his mother. I sometimes pine for the days when they were babies, but I’ve really been enjoying their emerging personalities over the years, discovering their likes and dislikes, reveling in their accomplishments. They will always make it on my Positive List.

I’m sure there were oodles of other wonderful things that happened in 2017, but I have a nasty head cold and am having difficulty coming up with anything specific. Sushi and karaoke with friends at a local restaurant? That was fun. Spending a night in Indianapolis with my boys to take in the holiday lights at the zoo and one of the museums there? Super fun. Getting a new puppy? He’s extra work and responsibility, but it feels like he’s always been a part of the family.

So, I guess 2017 wasn’t all that bad in retrospect. This post reminds me of our most recent holiday card, created on tinyprints.com/Shutterfly.com. I didn’t think much of the tagline on the front of the card when I first chose the design. I just thought it looked pretty once I slid in the photo of my boys. (They truly are my joy.) Once I saw the cards in person, I realized how much I needed those three little words in my life:

I hope you all find your joy in 2018. I’ll be on the lookout for mine.

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I’ve created a giveaway on Goodreads for “When We Were Forgotten” which starts today and runs until October 26, 2017. (You must be in the United States or Canada to enter.) It’s free to enter and there are no strings attached besides being a Goodreads member. Just click on the links below for a chance to win one (1) of ten (10) autographed paperback editions of my new science fiction novel. And please share with your friends and family!

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I’m happy to announce that my new science fiction novel, When We Were Forgotten, will be released on September 30, 2017. Just five days away! Eek!

Because I’m a woman who dares to have ideas on the Internet and because my new book wrestles with certain subject matters (climate change, reproductive rights, religious freedom), I feel it’s important to establish some ground rules for engaging on my blog from here on out.

1. Let’s talk! If you come here because you’ve read the book and want to discuss it, please do so. I’m all ears. I’d love to know what you thought of the characters, the setting, the themes, etc. If you have questions, please ask. If you have concerns, please share them. If you didn’t like the book, that’s fine. It’s not for everyone. Regardless, I’m happy to have a civil, respectful conversation with anyone who reads my words and wants to delve a little deeper into my book’s world. (By the way, thank you for reading the book. I really do appreciate it.)

2. The use of racist, homophobic, misogynistic, and other intolerant language will be cause for me to completely disengage with you. You have a viewpoint? Fine. Talk to me like we’re both human beings just trying to figure out this crazy world together. Better yet, talk to me like I’m a respected adult in your life. If you use any type of offensive and/or threatening language to try to get your viewpoint across, that’s NOT a viewpoint. That’s ABUSE. Abuse will not be tolerated here.

3. If you come here to taunt me just because I am a woman who dares to have ideas–especially if you have no intention of ever reading my book–I will ask you to kindly leave. If you don’t like someone like me invading your space, then don’t come here to invade mine.

4. Threats of physical harm to me or to members of my family, whether through comments here or through other forms of communication, will cause me to seek out the appropriate authorities. Please think about what you plan to leave behind before you leave it.

5. My book is a work of fiction. The story is made up and the cast of characters is diverse for a reason, which means the viewpoints of some of my characters may not be viewpoints I personally espouse. That should go without saying, but it’s like getting mad at an actor for something his character did in a show, when the actor’s just playing a part someone else wrote. Not every character in my book is going to believe everything I believe or think exactly the way I do. If they did, there would be no conflict, which would make for a pretty boring story.

6. Finally, please enjoy the book! It took over three years to write and lots of research on a variety of subjects. It is not perfect by any means, so please forgive me for any egregious errors I may have made while writing it. I’m only human. I make mistakes. Feel free to point them out to me in a respectful manner. I’ll take constructive criticism as graciously as I can, and then we can move on to something else. Because at the end of the day, it’s just a story.

Thanks for keeping these rules in mind and making my little corner of the Internet a civil space for everyone to enjoy.

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Mostly, I’m angry and frustrated and sad. At individual people. At the world in general. At myself. I tend to hide it well, but the roiling writhes deep.

I’m not going to name names. I’m tired at everyone blaming everyone else. I’m tired of feeling like there’s no hope of changing minds, that every day there’s a fresh new horror to deal with. That my friends and their families and countless other people across the globe are experiencing crises and situations I could never understand, no matter how much I try.

I told my husband last night that I want to be out on the “front lines” in some way, but I feel like I can’t because our boys still need me alive and unarrested. “But maybe my lily-white ass just needs to stay out of it anyway,” I said, because really, mine isn’t the voice that should be among those leading the charge. Because there are people more qualified than me to tell it like it is. Because I’m in constant need of checking my privilege.

What was it Anansi the Trickster said in the Starz version of “American Gods”?

“Angry is good. Angry gets shit done.”

Except when it doesn’t because you’re so freaking overwhelmed you don’t know which shit needs to get done first.

I guess I’ll #MakeArt instead. That’s something I know I can do, even when I’m tired. Especially when I’m tired.